Two Fics one angsty, one cracky
by roqueclasique
Summary: Over on my favorite site in the whole wide world, community./spnstoryfinders, I offered a comment-ficlet prize for the people who could find what I was looking for, and I figured I'd just post the resulting two stories, because why not?


_Over on my favorite site in the whole wide world, .com/spnstoryfinders, I offered a comment-ficlet prize for the people who could find what I was looking for, and I figured I'd just post the resulting two stories, because why not?_

_They are NOT in the Drive 'verse!!!_

_And they are both set early Season 1 – the first is very, very angsty, and the second is bordering on crack. And I wrote each one in like half an hour so they're completely unpolished. But! Perhaps you will enjoy them. _

**ANGSTY FIC**** (prompt at the end)**

Years of living with the Winchester code of "Don't complain unless parts of your insides are on your outsides" has fine-tuned Sam to every throw-away grunt, groan or grimace his brother knows how to make. There's the "I-just-broke-my-nose" grunt, the "This-is-one-spectacular-concussion" groan, the "Should-my-arm-be-twisted-that-way?" grimace, and every variance in between.

Right now, on Route 93 heading North through Vermont, Sam has no trouble recognizing the "Christ-this-is-a-bitch-of-a-headache" wince, which is tough to spot but glaringly obvious once you get the hang of looking. Dean's driving, hands tight on the wheel, lips compressed into a thin white line, brows furrowed, which is a classic headache pose. But then Sam notices that Dean's also leaning forward a little in his seat, squinting just a bit although there's almost no sun today, and Sam frowns.

There's something off about his brother's posture, something that a headache alone wouldn't account for. And Sam, expert though he is, can't quite place the problem.

Then Dean turns and gives him an annoyed swat, and Sam forgets worry in favor of annoyance.

"Map out, bitch," Dean says. "Where the fuck is the exit?"

:::

In Sturbridge, Massachusetts, after torching the bones of a pissed-off pilgrim, Dean drives the Impala off the road.

It's not a serious accident, scarcely an accident at all, just a roadblock in the middle of the street that Dean didn't see until Sam hollered, at which point he wrenched the wheel and sent them bouncing off into the grass on the side.

Sam starts to yell, but Dean's got this_ look_ on his face, pale and astonished, and Sam stops shouting and starts comforting instead.

"It's okay, man," he says. "You just didn't see it."

"I _know_," Dean snaps, and this weird expression flits across his face – something that looks a hell of a lot like fear, if Sam didn't know any better. Hell, maybe it is fear – sometimes Sam thinks Dean loves the Impala more than he loves his own goddamn skin.

"Here," Dean says abruptly, and tosses Sam the keys. Sam catches them on reflex, open-mouthed.

"You're kidding."

"I just –" Dean makes a strange, rolling gesture with his shoulders, like he's trying to shake something off. "I'm fucking sick of driving. I drive all the time."

"You're _sick_ of driving."

"Yeah," Dean says stubbornly, and climbs in the passenger seat.

Sam shakes his head, then opens the door and gets behind the wheel. Hey, he's not gonna complain. It's nice to hear Dean admitting something, for a change.

But then he looks over and his brother is rubbing his temples, eyes squeezed shut, and Sam's not so sure Dean admitted anything after all.

:::

Two weeks after Sam started driving everywhere, they go to Walmart. Dean hasn't touched the keys once since that moment on the side of the road in Massachusetts, Sam doesn't know what to think, feels like he should be worried, but there's nothing physical to worry about. Dean just doesn't want to drive. His brother's always been mercurial like that, so Sam figures it's just a phase, and puts it out of his head.

They're in the clothing section, stocking up on cheap t-shirts because, as Sam points out, bloodstains are so last year, when Dean casually pulls out a light pink shirt with a pattern of small red hearts, slings it over the pile on his arm.

Sam snorts, shakes his head, and Dean gives him an innocently puzzled look.

"What?"

Sam rolls his eyes and goes back to flipping through the racks, but Dean says it again.

"_What_?"

Sam looks up, about to make some smart comment about My Little Ponies or some shit like that, but the look on his brother's face stops him short. Dean seems genuinely confused.

"That shirt, man," Sam says. "Don't tell me you're serious?"

Dean glances down, puts a hand hesitantly on the pink shirt. "This one?"

"No, the other shirt that looks like a Valentine."

There's a brief, weird pause, and then Dean lets out a laugh that rings false, somehow. "I picked this out for you," Dean jokes. "What, you don't like it?"

Sam laughs, too, but he feels like he's missed something, feels like there was a stutter in the script somewhere. Then Dean chucks a pack of lacy bras at his head and he's too busy being indignant to think about it.

:::

Dean gets mauled by a black dog in Tulsa, and Sam patches him up in their lime-green motel room, the hissing lights highlighting the pallor of his brother's face and the red of his blood offset by the green of the scratchy blankets. Sam won't ever really get used to doing this again.

"I still don't get how you missed that shot," Sam says for the fifth time, and he knows it's a jackass thing to say when his brother's got half his left shoulder ripped to shreds, but he really just doesn't get it. Dean had shot like an amateur, shot _beyond_ the freakin' thing, right over its head.

"I don't know," Dean says for the fifth time, and he's not defensive, which is kind of why Sam keeps asking, because why isn't Dean getting pissed at him? Instead he's just tired and kind of scared looking, squinting up at Sam's face like the blood loss is blurring his vision.

"We need to put in some more target practice?" Sam jokes.

"Maybe," Dean says, and closes his eyes as Sam starts stitching.

Sam tells himself it was just a mistake, a stupid mistake that could have been a lot worse, but there's this weird feeling he's had for the past few months or so, like he's missing something important.

But what?

:::

Sam breaks his leg in Northfield, Minnesota, and Dean breaks down.

Sam doesn't see it, but the nurses tell him in a hushed voice.

"Your brother _lost_ it," Nurse Emily says, helping him to raise the bed a little so he can eat the nasty excuse for lunch that the hospital's provided.

"Seriously?" Sam says.

"Yeah," Emily says. "He was quiet about it, but he just sat in the waiting room freaking out the whole time you were in surgery. Just… I don't know, he was crying a _lot_. Like… I mean, maybe you should have him talk to someone? We kept telling him you were going to be fine, but he was… it was bad, Sam. I just thought you should know."

"Thanks," Sam says, and he doesn't know what the fuck to think. He'd seen Dean earlier, and Dean seemed fine, except for the part where he wouldn't stop apologizing for missing yet another shot, which has been happening with such startling regularity that Sam thinks maybe he _should_ have Dean talk to someone, because physically he seems like he's in great health, but there's something wrong, Sam can feel it. And it's scaring him.

When Dean comes in after lunch, pale and nervous-seeming but otherwise fine, Sam brings it up, as casually as he can. Though Sam was never really one for great subtlety.

"Dude, what's wrong?"

"What?" Dean says, lifts his head from where he was running a palm over the fraying hole in the knee of his jeans.

"Something's up," Sam says. "You've been… you've been _off _for a while now. Ever since…" he tries to think. "Ever since you quit driving."

Dean's face loses some of its already-scarce color. "I just don't like driving."

"Bullshit," Sam says.

Dean shakes his head, going for angry but he just ends up looking frightened. "That morphine is getting to you, dude. I'll come back when you're not so loopy."

Sam is still shouting after him as he leaves the room, which is a fucking stupid move on his brother's part, because avoidance, in Dean's world, is as good as an admittance. Something is wrong.

God, even his walk is different, Sam realizes. Time was, he woulda just charged out the door, not looking back, but he's slower now, tentative, one hand palming the doorframe as he goes past, like he's making sure it's there.

It's fucking _weird._

:::

Sam is released a few days later, wheeled out to the front and given a pair of crutches that start chafing his armpits immediately.

He's looking for the Impala, so it's something of a shock when Dean hops out of a cab.

"What the fuck?" Sam says.

"We gotta talk," Dean says, and hovers as he climbs into the backseat to stretch out his leg.

They don't talk during the ride to the motel, don't say anything as Dean helps Sam get settled onto the bed, goes to get him a glass of water for the pain meds, and Sam watches him as if with new eyes. Every move he's making is slow, like he thinks he's gonna fall over at any second, and he carries the glass of water so carefully it's almost comical.

Then he misjudges the distance from his hand to the table and drops the water on the floor with a crash of splintered glass that makes them both jump.

"Fuck," Dean breathes, and gets to his knees to clean it up, but when he's down there he doesn't do anything, just kind of crouches by the bed and does this harsh, controlled breathing thing that Sam recognizes from when they were kids and he was trying not to cry.

"Dude," Sam says, reaches over and hovers a hand helplessly over him, settles it on his head because it's the only place he can reach. "Dean, please, dude, you're scaring the shit outta me. You gotta tell me what's wrong."

"I'm sorry," Dean says, runs a hand down his face. "Fuck, Sammy, I'm so sorry."

"Is this about my leg?" Sam asks, although he knows, he knows it's not. "I told you, man, it's not your fault."

"It_ is_," Dean says, shudders in a breath. "I missed the fucking shot, Sam, christ, I shouldn't even be using a gun, I coulda killed you a thousand times, why the fuck am I still using a gun, oh, jesus christ, _fuck_."

"What are you talking about?" Sam asks, throat constricting, because Dean sounds more terrified and more desperate than Sam's ever heard.

"I have this thing," Dean says, and all of a sudden Sam doesn't want to hear it, but it's too late. "This eye thing," Dean says, presses the heels of his hands into his eye sockets.

"What eye thing?" Sam asks, but the last few months are flashing through his head in a dizzying succession of images that are making more and more horrible sense. Dean won't drive. Dean's missing shots. Dean runs his hands over his clothes before he puts them on. Dean bangs his head when he gets into the car. Dean is clumsy. Dean is—

"I'm going blind, dude," Dean says, and Sam's not sure who starts crying first.

THE END

**(Prompt: Dean slowly going blind and trying to hide it from Sam.)**

**::::::::::::::::::::**

**:::NEXT!:::**

**::::::::::::::::::::**

**NON-ANGSTY FIC**

**Prompt: "****Two totally heroic, non-whiny/NON-angsty brothers saving beautiful little children, "winchester supreme sxt" (ammo) and intense swearing."**

The fugly tonight is more than fugly – it's goddamn motherfucking holy-christ-avert-thine-eyes _hideous, _and though Dean would never admit it out loud, the uglier things are, they scarier they are, too. He'd learned that particular lesson way back in third grade, thanks to Mrs. Danielson and her big, nasty googly eyes and lumpish body – but Mrs. Danielson's got _nothing _on this thing. Fuckin' _nothing. _

"Oh, oh my god," Sam says behind him, makes a little retching noise. "I think I'm gonna be _sick._"

"'S pretty big," Dean whispers unnecessarily. They're crouched behind a big forsythia bush in suburban Massachusetts, peering through the dining room windows as an eight-foot tall garbage heap on dinosaur claws serves cupcakes to two of the cutest damn kids Dean's ever seen in his goddamn life. And they're _identical, _down to their light-up My Little Pony Nikes and curly brown ponytails.

"I just don't get it," Sam hisses. "How are they not _seeing _that thing?"

"Do I have to fuckin' spell it out for you?" Dean asks. "I told you, it's a glamour. G-L-A-M-O-U-R. They look at that bitch, all they see is fuckin' _Barney. _Or whatever it is they'd figure to be harmless. And look at those cupcakes – those cupcakes look fuckin' sweet, don't lie."

"They look good," Sam admits. "Kinda weird that thing knows how to bake."

"I guess if you wanna fatten kids up so you can chow down, you've gotta learn how to whip up a good cupcake."

"Yeah."

"All right," Dean says, gives a little shiver of disgust and tears himself away from the revolting sight, can't really stand to watch as Fuckin' Adorable Twin A starts chowing down on Monster Muffin straight from the dripping, slimy claws. "You know the game plan. We bust in, I flame the goddamn thing while you shove the kids aside and then pump a couple rounds into its heart."

"I still don't think it's fair that you get to use the flamethrower," Sam whines.

"Dude, I have been waiting for a case that requires an honest-to-god flamethrower since I was fuckin' _born. _I told you, you can lob the grenade next time we take out a nest of Black Dogs."

"Puppies, Dean," Sam says. "You're telling me I get to explode a cuddly nest of _puppies._"

"With a grenade."

"Fuck you, man."

"Hey, head in the game, Sammy, c'mon. So we torch this thing till it – how did Dad's journal say we'll know when it's dead?"

"It'll uh, whistle like a teakettle," Sam says. "Says Dad."

"Right. So as soon as it starts whistling, you take the kids outside while I go find the parents."

"What if… what if the parents aren't, you know…"

"What, alive? Journal says this thing only eats kids, locks the parents up and lets them waste away. And it's only been two days, they can't have gone all Donner Party yet."

Sam looks doubtful. "Right."

"All right." Dean rolls his neck, adjusts his grip on the flamethrower, can't help but grin a little. "You ready?"

"Ugh. Did you see that? It just – it just _snotted shit. _Like, real shit just came out of its nose. Oh, jesus, oh my fucking god —"

"_Sam._"

"Yeah. Yeah, I'm ready."

Dean stands, darts out from behind the yellow-flowered bush and kicks the door open in one fluid movement, busts into the dining room where the Fuckin' Adorables are staring at him, open-mouthed, bits of chewed-up cupcake on their tongues – and christ, even that's kind of cute, on these kids.

But _shit. _Fugly is standing _right _in front of them, and if he lets loose with the flames right now, he's gonna have two scorched Adorables on his hands, which really wasn't part of the plan.

"Hey, grapenut," Dean barks, and woah, _grapenut? _Where the fuck did _that _come from? He's gotta sit down and come up with some new taunts.

The thing roars, and the twins look surprised.

"Get the fuck over here and try to feed _me _a cupcake," Dean hollers, and the thing doesn't move.

"You can have mine, mister," one of the girls pipes up. _Christ. _

And bam, like the sound of her voice is some kind of Monster-Provoker, Fugly tosses its head back and lets out something that's more of a scream than a roar, then puts its head down and _charges._

Fuck. No one told Dean this thing'd come at him like a fuckin' _battering ram, _for chrissake.

"Flames!" Sam shrieks behind him, and Dean makes a mental note of the register of his voice so he can imitate it later, but right now, yeah, more important things to do.

Dean lets the flames loose, and _oh yes, _this is everything he thought a flamethrower would be and more, waves of flame spewing from the nozzle like a hyperactive volcano, and the thing roars again as its flesh starts to sizzle and burn and the smell of a thousand burst sewer mains fills the dining room.

_I am the Fire God. Bow before me._

The Adorables start shrieking, and Sam, god bless him, scoops them up, one in each arm and kind of tosses them into the next room, then whirls around and raises the shotgun to his shoulder.

Not a moment too soon, either, because Fugly's advancing through the fire, though he stops when the first silver bullet punches through his back, followed by another, and another, and another, and then all of a sudden the sewer-line stink disappears and is replaced by the calming scent of – Dean sniffs. Is that _Earl Grey?_

And then a high, fluty whistle fills the air, just like a – yup, just like a teakettle. And the things slumps to the floor in a huge puddle of charred goo and scales.

Dean raises a sooty hand to his forehead, wipes away the gallon of sweat collected there, because flamethrowers are hot work, man.

"It dead?" Sam calls, shotgun still raised.

Dean rolls his eyes. Sam Winchester, master of the pointless question. "Yes, Sam. It's dead."

"Lickety Split?" comes a little voice from behind Sam's knee, and one of the tiny twins comes forward. "You killed Lickety Split?"

"Lickety -- ? Listen, sweetheart, I don't know who Lickety Split is, but does that look like him to you?"

"_Her,_" the other twin corrects crossly, coming to stand by her sister. "No. Lickety Split is _pink _and has _ice cream _on her butt."

"Sounds like my kinda gal," Dean cracks, and Sam shoots him a withering look.

"Hey, Sam," Dean continues. "What say I take these rugrats outside while you go find Mom and Dad, huh?"

"They're in the basement playing Barbies!" one of the twins pipes up, and Dean realizes that up close she's got the cutest little freckles he's ever seen.

"Oh yeah?" Dean asks, casts a meaningful look at Sam. "You heard the girl. Basement. Now. Lickety-split, go."

Sam glares at him, and casts a wistful glance at the kids. "How about _you _get the parents and I—"

"I got babysitting duty," Dean says. "They like me better, don't you?"

"We don't _know _you," one of the twins points out. "But you have a flamethrower and he just has a stinky gun, so we'll go with you."

Dean thinks maybe that just made his week.

"Fine," Sam huffs, and lets the rifle fall to his side, giving Dean's flamethrower a jealous glower.

Once outside, Dean sits the girls down in the grass and lets them teach him the Miss Mary Mack clapping game, which is kinda fucking _hard, _but he's pretty good at it, Laura and Maura assure him of it.

It only takes about ten minutes for Sam to come back, two dirty, bedraggled grown-ups in tow, looking confused and relieved and _that's _how Maura and Laura got so cute, 'cause _damn, _both their parents are fuckin' gorgeous. Dean wouldn't be opposed, if they were so inclined.

"Girls!" the mother cries, and Laura – or is it Maura? – runs into her arms, while Maura – or Laura? – runs into the father's.

"I don't know what the hell just happened," the father says, looking up at Sam. "But it seems we owe you a thanks?"

"No problem," Sam says, dimpling, and Dean frowns as he sees Adorable Twins' mother giving Sam a gentle, slightly interested smile.

"All in a day's work," Dean says loudly, and they all turn to look at him.

"Thanks, Deany!" Maura pipes up.

"Deany Deany!" Laura agrees.

"Uh, Deany?" Sam says, and Dean's not sure if wasting the fugly was worth being called _Deany _for the next six thousand miles. "We should hit the road, man."

"Yeah," Dean says.

"At least let us—" the mother starts to protest, but the brothers shake their heads simultaneously.

"We gotta go," Sam says.

"Bye!" the twins chorus.

"Bye!" Dean and Sam chorus back.

That night, they celebrate with just a little too much Jack, and Dean teaches Sam how to play Miss Mary Mack. And goddamn the kid, he's a fuckin' natural.

Dean can't help but feel a little proud.

THE END


End file.
